


Stuck in a Backwater Town (with the things that go bump in the night)

by roxashighwind



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon Rewrite, Gen, Slow Build Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-06
Updated: 2014-03-06
Packaged: 2018-01-14 17:16:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,144
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1274593
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/roxashighwind/pseuds/roxashighwind
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Stilinski's never lived in Beacon Hills and weren't from anywhere near California. Yet, they were connected to the place in a way. The Old Houses, the shady conglomerate that oversees all Hunter activity and assists in keeping supernatural shenanigans off the radar of the general public, has assigned The Sheriff (and his son) to see what the hell is going on in the little California town and take care of it.</p><p>Almost an entire family of werewolves was killed in their home six years ago, and now one of the three surviving members of the family is dead. Hunters are nearing the area, Argents that have always seemed more likely to break the Code than others, and there has already been some seemingly rabid werewolf activity.</p><p>Strings are pulled, and Stiles and his father get shoved into something messier than they'd anticipated. Going through high school once is rarely fun for anyone involved, but going through it a second time to help find out if there's really a rabid alpha werewolf wanting to bite teenagers? That's gonna suck.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stuck in a Backwater Town (with the things that go bump in the night)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Hatteress (goddammitstacey)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/goddammitstacey/gifts).



> This fic is currently a WIP. No set timeline on when chapters will be posted, and I am very sorry for that. 
> 
> Inspired by [this AU request](http://hatteress.tumblr.com/post/76489728258/i-would-like-an-au-where-stiles-and-his-dad-never) by [Hatteress](http://hatteress.tumblr.com). I'm really excited to be writing it, and I hope that she enjoys it as I progress through season one. 
> 
> Tags will be updated with every chapter, and the rating will eventually change. Eventual Sterek.

Stiles doesn’t mind working for the Old Houses. His father is lovingly referred to as The Sheriff - well, “lovingly” probably isn’t the best of terms when most Hunters piss themselves when his dad’s coming after them, which always makes Stiles laugh in a pitying kind of way - and it’s been that way since Stiles was knee high to a grasshopper. The leaders of the Old Houses aren’t bad dudes overall, none of them freak Stiles out too much even if a few of them are kind of crotchety and give him the evil eye now and again. All in all, it’s not a bad group to work for, and he’s got health insurance and enough money to keep him in high quality computer parts and video games in the little downtime he gets.

Stiles works alongside his father, acting as backup and “Sheriff in Training” or something to that effect; he’s not really sure what his actual title with the leaders is, because they refuse to tell him and his father always calls him his research monkey and slave labour. Which… yeah, okay, that’s not entirely inaccurate - Stiles is kind of amazing with a computer and totally a master of Google-fu, if he’s going to toot his own horn (which he is going to do, frequently and loudly, to anyone that will listen). All of that means that he’s there when his dad gets the call about some Argents being fucktards again.

It’s not the first time that the Argent family has fucked up, gotten out of step with the Code, and it probably won’t be the last. And that’s a depressing thought every single time Stiles comes across it, because there are so many decent Hunting families but the Argents tend to go rogue more than the others. And that’s not just Stiles judging them on his one encounter with Gerard Argent when he was fourteen - no, Stiles actually has statistics on the main hunting families and Argents seem to go off-Code more often. That’s not to say that the divergence rate is high or anything, just a couple more than average in a generation, but enough to put them on the “Watch These Fuckers” list that Stiles is convinced the leaders have.

He looks at the table at the head of the hall, because the leaders of the Old Houses are old school like that and have a table at the head of a big open hall like it’s ye oldie days or something, and tries not to shrink back at the looks they’re giving him. They’ve never liked his fidgeting, but he has the hardest time standing still in front of them (or anyone, anywhere, at any time unless it’s a matter of literal life or death, and sometimes not even then). He eyes them, attention bouncing around the table, skipping from one old dude to the next until he finally lands on the one woman among them; it’s always been easier to focus on her than the others.

“Can’t we just clean this up quick? Pick up…” Stiles hesitates and wracks his brain for the specific name of their target. It slots into place after a long, awkward pause. “Katherine Argent…. and her father or whatever and ‘bring them into the fold’ like we always do? Quick and easy and over in like, two days.”

The Sheriff’s hand darts out smacks against the back of Stiles’ head. “Ignore the boy, Council,” he says easily as Stiles squawks. “We’ll head out ASAP, and keep you appraised of the situation. The Argent-Hale problem will be taken care of.” He nods to the leaders, receives nods in return, and guides Stiles away with a hand between his son’s shoulders, just shy of being on the back of his neck.

When they’ve made it out of the Old Houses’ complex, John thumps the back of Stiles’ head again. “Kid, you gotta learn to keep your mouth shut unless they ask you to open it. Last thing I need is to get your profile in my inbox.” He motions Stiles toward the black Charger parked at the meter. The lights flash as he unlocks it via key fob, and it’s with a happy little sigh that he slides into the driver’s seat.

Stiles lets out a pleased sound of his own, sinking into the passenger seat. He buckles the seat belt with only the slightest of struggles. “What’s the plan here?”

“They’ve already set me up in the town. I’m gonna be the replacement sheriff for the one they recently lost.” He grins as he pulls out into traffic and heads toward the interstate.

“Oh my god. Really?” He rolls his eyes hard and angles himself in his seat to better communicate his disbelief. “You’re already called ‘The Sheriff,’ and now you’re going to actually be a small town sheriff? You’re loving this, aren’t you? Any chance to milk it, right?” His hands move as he talks, knuckles of one hand knocking against the rear view mirror on a particularly wild move.

John shrugs but can’t hide his grin. “I’m perfectly qualified to be a real sheriff. And you’re going to be my sophomore son.” He raises a hand to adjust the mirror and almost gets hit when Stiles flails again.

“Visiting from college?” Stiles asks hopefully. He can tell by the way his dad laughs that his hope his entirely misplaced. Of fucking course. He needs to get buddy buddy with the kids at Beacon Hills High, the ones vulnerable to the Alpha that they’re guessing is in town. “You’re the worst.”

“Teenagers have better immune systems and a higher chance of surviving the stresses brought on by the Bite and the change. You’re my in at that level, Stiles.” John reaches over and pats Stiles’ shoulder. “You’ll do fine; everyone thinks you’re still in high school as it is.”

He rolls his eyes hard. “Thanks for that. Really. So great for my self esteem.” He settles back in his seat properly with a huff. “When I grow into my rugged good looks, you’ll be singing a different tune.”

“And that tune’ll be ‘who swapped my kid with a changeling’ because, sad to say kiddo, but you’ll probably miss the mark on rugged.”

“Hey! Fragile teenage ego here!” Stiles manages to sound pretty convincingly upset about the whole thing, but they both know it’s just an act; he knows he’ll be lucky to hit “chiseled,” though that’s more attainable than “rugged” for sure. “I believe it’s parental duty to nurture the self esteem of teenagers, not crush it with harsh realities.”

“Good thing you’re not actually a teenager then, huh?” John laughs at Stiles’ affronted sound and turns the radio to the classic rock station, tapping his thumbs against the steering wheel in time to the music. “Settle in kid. It’s a long way to California.”

Stiles sighs and pulls out his tablet. “Yeah, yeah. How long are we supposed to be there?”

“Long as it takes. Old Houses has set us up with a house already. Don’t worry, you’re still getting the good internet and your laptop’s in the bag in the back seat.”

“With my nine-mil, right? Everything else is in the trunk, I assume?” He flips between screens, trying to decide on what to do first.

“Clothes and most of the weapons and everything, yeah.”

He sighs again. “You sent me the files, right?” He didn’t actually need to ask, finding them easily in his cloud storage. Stiles needs to set up a plan before they get to Beacon HIlls, sort out what they’re likely dealing with and the best course of action. There’s a dead Hale and signs of a rogue Alpha, and it’s possible that one kid has already been bitten. Another sigh falls from his lips. “Fuck.”

John nods, easy as you please, knowing what Stiles is seeing and guessing at the conclusions he’s making. “You’re a sophomore transfer from Nebraska. Which will work for you since you like plaid so much when you dress down.”

Stiles jerks in the passenger seat, whipping his head around to stare at his father. “What? No. No, no, that’s so messed up. Why can’t I be from somewhere cool? I’d take Denver, or somewhere around there. Not B-F-E, hick-central.”

“Coulda been Tennessee.” John shrugs and tries to keep a straight face. He only just manages.

“You cannot be serious.” The look on his dad’s face makes him pale. “They were really going to make it seem like we’re from Tennessee? That’s bullshit!” He fumbles his tablet, nearly dropping it in between his knees and into the footwell. He barely catches it with a triumphant noise. He frowns at his dad again. “We could not pull off being from Tennessee.”

John’s face finally breaks into a laugh. “That’s why I talked them into Nebraska. It was the best compromise I was going to get from the tech team.” He glances at Stiles. “Let’s go over what we know.”

“About a month ago, Laura Hale was murdered by something. It’s unclear if it was hunters or another werewolf, because she was cut in half like the old school hunters do with rogues and omegas they catch fucking up.” Stiles shakes his head. “Point is, one of the last surviving Hales is dead and now it looks like there’s a rogue alpha trying to make a pack in Beacon Hills.” He taps a finger against the edge of his tablet as he thinks. “Derek Hale is back in town to take care of his sister’s body and everything and Peter Hale, his uncle, is still in a coma.”

John hums. He’s read the files himself, and he’s got a few theories. “The big question right now is who the new alpha is, and if the Argents in the area are going to go overboard the way they normally do.”

“There’s no Argents in the Beacon HIlls or the surrounding counties at the moment. At least not that anyone knows.” His frown deepens and he taps at the screen of his tablet for almost a minute. “Wait. Okay. Christopher and Victoria and their kid are settling in.” He smacks his tablet against his leg. “People need to update things more often, damn.”

He hums again. “So they’re already in town. That makes things a little trickier.”

“Not really. Means that they’re still going to be a bit unsettled from the move, and not fully on their game.” Stiles fidgets in his seat.

John nods absently, thumbs tapping at the steering wheel in time with the music still playing on the radio. “That is true. More likely to reveal themselves if we catch them at the right time. Chris still an arms dealer?”

“Yup.” He scoots down in his seat, pressing his knees against the dash. “I think I’m going to nap. It’s gonna be a while until we get there, right?”

“Right.” He looks over at his son and turns the music down until it’s a low addition over the hum of the Charger’s engine. “Get some sleep, I’ll wake you when it’s time to get something to eat.”

“It’s a plan.” Stiles shoves a hand between the seat and the door to grab the lever, seat dropping backward in a rush. “Oof.” He curls up as much as a tall guy in his early twenties can really manage in the front seat of a newer muscle car, and cuddles his tablet to his chest.

\--

Three meal stops, an actual nap break, and about twenty-one hundred miles later, John reaches over to the passenger seat and jostles Stiles’ shoulder. “Rise and shine, son-o-mine.” He grins when Stiles startles and smacks his shoulder against the window. He pulls into the driveway of a house that honestly looks like it’s held together with wishes and prayers and hope. “Got a present for you.”

Stiles blinks owlishly, rubbing at his shoulder as he looks out the windshield. “Huh? This place looks like shit.”

“There’s a lot to be said of hunter ingenuity.” He nudges Stiles’ head to look closer to where the run down house and its attached garage connect. There’s a black spot that wouldn’t look like anything unless you knew you were looking for a security camera. “No one wants to come to the house that looks like it could come down at any moment. Perfect safe house.”

Stiles whistles, taking in the house. His father’s first statement takes a minute to sink in. He fixes his seat and claps excitedly. “A present?”

John rolls his eyes with a chuckle. “That’s what I said.” He parks and turns the car off. “Out.” He unbuckles and slips out of the car. He doesn’t wait for Stiles to follow before heading to the garage. He flicks his gaze up to the camera before seeking out the keypad recessed into the ‘decaying’ wood trim next to the garage door. He taps in a quick six number code and smiles at the happy beep he receives. The door starts to pull up. “Catch.”

Stiles has only just scrambled out of the car when something  comes flying at his head. He catches whatever his father lobbed at him right before it hit him in the face. “The fuck, Dad?” On closer inspection, it turns out to be a set of keys. Obviously a car key of some sort, but no fob so it’s not the keys to the Charger.

“Language.” He frowns, like the put upon father he is, and motions Stiles closer. “Just look in the garage.”

His face falls to echo his dad’s frown. This is not what he wanted. What he was hoping for when he got told that he’s going to be a high schooler again is that he’d get the good car to at least be some level of not-uncool. Lights turn on in the garage, proving that it’s not actually a rundown hovel but rather weapon and ammunition storage with just enough space to comfortably fit some baby blue monstrosity in the center. He looks at the keys in his hand and back to what he’s pretty sure is a Jeep from the seventies, then back to the keys and over to his dad and down at the keys and up to the Jeep again.

“No. C’mon. I could be the ‘cool new kid’ not the weirdo in the shitty Jeep.” Stiles is distressed, arms waving around to indicate the vehicle in question. “You take that. Let me have the Charger.”

“High school kids in Beacon Hills don’t have brand new Chargers. The Jeep is good. You’ll fit in.”

He knows he’s being childish, but he can’t help it. “I don’t want to fit in,” he replies with a slight whine. He’s seconds away from channeling a spoiled brat and stomping his foot. “I want the nice car.”

With another roll of his eyes, John scrubs a hand against the back of his neck. “Stiles. You get the Jeep or the school bus and a bike.” At the way Stiles’ face brightens he quickly amends, “A bicycle, not a motorcycle. Reign it in.”

Stiles huffs, and finally takes a few more steps into the garage to really get a look at the Jeep. The paint job looks well maintained for how old it has to be, and that’s pretty cool even if he’s not fond of the almost powdery blue. He kicks at the driver’s side front tire, and sighs as he moves on to unlock it. “I bet it’s a gas guzzler.” He yanks the door open and pulls himself into the driver’s seat. Absently, he pets the steering wheel as he looks looks over the dash and the radio. No CD player, so he’ll have to rely on the radio, if it even works.

“Well?” John crosses his arms over his chest as he watches Stiles explore the Jeep, sees him adjust the seat and tap his hands against the wheel as he takes everything in. A displeased Stiles is a vengeful Stiles, and a vengeful Stiles is sneaky and too good with computers and making general mayhem. Hell, Stiles is a handful when he’s not upset, so it only gets worse when he feels like he’s been wronged. Hunters may be afraid of John and what it means when he’s called in, but John has to admit that when Stiles takes over for him it’s going to be even scarier.

He sounds petulant as he responds, “It’s not so bad. I guess.” The fact that he’s petting the dash as he says it makes John want to roll his eyes.

John nods, satisfied that Stiles won’t make too big of a deal about it anymore.“You’re going to follow me in to BH. We’ve got tomorrow to get you fully registered and get me settled in at the Sheriff’s Station.”

“I still think it’s ridiculous that they’re setting you up as the Sheriff. A bit too ‘on the nose’ for me not to want to laugh every single time. It’s going to be ridiculous when non-Hunters call you ‘the Sheriff’ or ‘Sheriff Stilinski.’ Completely crazy weird.” He shakes his head, still in the driver’s seat of the Jeep. “Wanna bring me my laptop bag?”

“Your legs and your hands work, you get it.” He turns and makes his way back to the Charger but doesn’t get in. “Well?”

Stiles grumbles something about unfair treatment and how isn’t it that parents are supposed to be nice to their kids, and fumbles his way out of the Jeep. His feet get caught on the door frame and he has to do a weird little hop, almost toppling over before he rights himself. “I meant to do that,” he mumbles, runs shaky hands along the front of his thighs. “Totally meant to do that.”

John laughs under his breath and leans along the side of the car. “Smooth.”

In a fantastic show of just how adult he is, Stiles manages to curb the instinct to blow a raspberry in his father’s direction. He’s an adult, a twenty-two year old man dammit, even if he is baby faced enough to pass for sixteen. “Cat-like reflexes, I’ve totally got ‘em.” He nods his head so emphatically that he’s sure that he’s going to end up with a killer headache before the day is over.

“Keep telling yourself that, kiddo.” He can’t help the little laugh that escapes, doesn’t even try to hide it with a fake cough. “Get your stuff so we can head out. The sooner we get there, the sooner it is that you can set up the internet how you like.”

That gets Stiles moving. He yanks the back door of the charger open and ducks in, head narrowly missing the edge of the frame. “Got it.” He pulls out with the long strap of the bulky laptop bag slung across his chest, hands on the bag itself, and shoves the door closed with his foot. As he settles the bag against his hip, he hears something crinkle. “Are there snacks in here?” The question comes as he’s already digging into the big zippered pocket, discovering gummy candy and three different kinds of chips. “Duuude!”

“Don’t say I never did anything for ya.” John grins.

“Funny, old man.” Stiles zips the bag shut again. He opens the front passenger door to grab his tablet and hip checks it closed. “Lead on.” He falls back to the Jeep, heaves his bag into the passenger seat, and climbs in himself. “Got my phone on me, in case we get split up.”

John waves at him and slips into the Charger.

\--

Stiles discovers, in the hour and a half it takes to finally get to Beacon Hills, that the radio in the Jeep is stuck on some bubble gum pop radio station and won’t let him change it. He wonders, very briefly, if the Jeep might be possessed, because it wouldn’t be the first time he’d encountered such a thing. He shoves the thought from his mind before his overactive imagination can get the better of him.

His dad signals into a residential area near what Stiles thinks is the middle of town. He can’t judge all that well, because they passed a closed and crumbling shopping mall when they pulled off of the highway. He’s sure that this town thrived once, but it doesn’t anymore and that’s just sad. Stiles shakes his head and focuses on the turns they’re making to get to their new house.

It really is a house, too. Stiles expects to pull into the driveway of a one story or maybe a split level house but what he sees is a two story beast of a house with a porch and a garage. He whistles, impressed, and kills the engine. He has to yank hard to get the key out of the ignition, the Jeep pinging as it starts to settle. Stiles falls out of the driver’s door, graceful as ever, and hefts his bag from the passenger seat.

“Sweet place. Don’t you think it’s a little big for two people?” He shifts his hold on the bag, looping the long strap over his shoulder to better balance the bag itself against his hip. “Like. This is totally a house that a big family would live in. What’s it got - three bedrooms? Four?”

John rolls his eyes. “Two bedrooms, bathroom and a half, decent sized kitchen and living room. Basement with washer and dryer, and an office space on the second floor with the bedrooms.” He ticks off the specs like reading a list he’d memorized for this exact situation. “It’s nothing fancy, kid, just a comfortable house for the new sheriff and his teenage son.” There’s a pause. “His teenage son that will make friends and play nice or get sent to military school.”

Stiles’ face falls, mouth dropping open to retort that his dad can’t send him to military school because he’s a grown ass adult when he spots one of their neighbors watching them. Oh. That makes a lot more sense now. “Ugh, fine.” He needs to at the annoyed teen, the teen that hates that they’ve moved, probably not the first time, and into a messed up little town to boot.

“Movers already brought in most of our stuff, your bed should even be in your room.” John makes eye contact with Stiles before tossing the house keys at him, both to make sure he knows they’re coming and to keep him from saying anything else. “Open ‘er up while I go talk to the neighbor.” He moves to do just that, walking over to the hedges separating their yards. “I’m John Stilinski and that’s my son, Stiles.”

He tunes him out and takes the stairs up to the porch two at a time. He almost trips over an uneven board, but saves it at the last second. It’s easy enough to fit the key to the lock and get the door open, and Stiles whistles again when he steps inside.

The place is nice. Homey. Better than what they’ve got near headquarters. Which isn’t to say that they’re living in a dump or anything, but they travel a lot so it doesn’t look very lived in. This place, on the other hand, looks like a home. Even with some stuff still in boxes - because Old Houses movers had actually taken some of their acquired nicknacks from storage and shipped it over - it looked like they were settling in.

Stiles does a cursory lap around the first floor to get the lay of the land, so to speak, before heading upstairs. He doesn’t expect much, and he definitely doesn’t expect the ‘office’ to have a large weapons safe and a good computer set up when he sticks his head into the room. The master bedroom looks like an average bedroom with a bed and dresser and night table. The bedroom that will be Stiles’ for the duration of their stay, on the other hand…

“Oh my god that’s my actual bed.” He says it out loud even though his dad isn’t anywhere within hearing range. He can feel that his eyes are huge, surprised, and forces himself to blink and set his laptop bag down gently. As soon as it’s on the floor, Stiles launches himself at his bed. He lands with a bounce and drags his pillow down from the head of it to clutch it to his chest. He knew that his dad packed his pillow, because his pillow is something he needs if he’s away, but he hadn’t hoped for the whole bed. The mattress that cradles him just right, the soft blue comforter that is warm even on the coldest nights but isn’t too warm even on the hottest nights of summer with busted air conditioning.

It’s his literal bed and assorted accoutrements and he can’t believe how excited and relieved he is that it’s here. He lays there, curled on his side with a pillow against his chest, for a lot longer than he would care to admit, thanks so much. Before he can fall asleep, he rolls off the bed and lands hard on his knees on the floor. It hurts, but it’s enough to wake him up after being so close to a nap.

He’s setting his laptop on the desk when he hears footsteps on the stairs, his gun is out of his bag and trained one handed on the doorway before he even realizes he’s doing it. He doesn’t look at the door, knowing from the gait of the footsteps that it’s his dad, but training is training and if he didn’t have his gun out his dad would frown at him for a few hours. He continues fiddling with his laptop with his free hand as the partially closed door is pushed further open.

“Stand down, kid.” John’s voice is steady. He glances at the rumpled bed and a smile tugs at his mouth; good to know that Stiles appreciated the effort. “Neighbor is Jeanie Klassen. She’s older, and all her kids are either out of college or nearly out of college. She’s going to be bringing us a casserole for dinner.”

Stiles lowers his gun, flicks the safety on, and settles it on the desk next to his laptop. “You played the dead wife card, didn’t you? Look at you, manipulating little old ladies so we don’t have to cook for a week.” He shakes his head but can’t help admiring his dad’s foresight. It’s going to take Stiles a day or two to scope out the restaurants in town and another to get a feel for the grocery store. Maybe even longer, he realizes when he remembers that he’s supposed to be a tenth grader with school and crap on top of everything else.

John shrugs, unashamed. “You’d have pulled the same thing if you weren’t so determined to force me to eat “healthy” all the damn time.”

“You’re getting old and I’m not having you die of heart disease.” The old argument flares and Stiles turns away from the desk. “You can’t -”

“Hush up, Stiles. A couple homemade casseroles won’t ruin your work, and it’ll give you one less thing to worry about until everything settles here. You just focus on being the new kid and make friends at school.”

He groans, loud and long and completely put out. “Stop saying the ‘S’ word, Dad, c’mon.”

With a chuckle, John steps forward and pats Stiles’ shoulder. “School, school, school. It’s really not that bad. You’ve been through it once, going through it again won’t kill you.”

“With a rabid alpha possibly on the loose, I wouldn’t be so sure.”

John gives him a stern look. “Stiles.”

“What?” He caves quickly, not wanting a fight when they’ve just gotten here. “Okay, fine. Yeah, it won’t be horrible or whatever. But I’m going to be that awkward new kid that no one wants to talk to. This is a small town…” He trails off, train of thought broken. “Is it actually a small town? Was it a big town once? What the hell do I classify this as?”

He sighs and drags his hand over his face. “It was a larger town that it is now. It’s been slowly dying for a few decades, but it’s not small enough to be ‘podunk’ yet.” He gives Stiles another look, more of an ‘are you satisfied?’ than stern or reprimanding.

“Ahh, okay. See, that makes sense and whatever.” He grins. “Back to what I was saying. This is a small town, and small towns don’t like new kids. I mean, unless it’s a small town in a movie and then the small town loves new kids.” Waving a hand, he turns back to his laptop. “So this can go only poorly. Either no one will talk to me or everyone and their goldfish will talk to me and those are equally terrible options. My only glimmer of hope is getting pulled in by the outcasts, and I don’t think that will work either.”

“Have a little faith in yourself, kid. Get unpacked and then we’ll have some of the casserole Mrs. Klassen is giving us before sacking out for the night. Gotta be bright eyed and bushy tailed for the morning - we’re going to get you registered for school and start getting me settled in at the Sheriff’s Department.” John smiles widely at his son’s falling face. With a pointed look around the room he adds, “Unpack.”

Stiles waves a hand at him. “Yeah, yeah. I’ll be downstairs in like, an hour. Gonna futz with the internet for a bit and get things set up.” His attention narrows to his laptop as he lifts the lid, tipping the screen back far enough to see it easily while standing. “You go and do whatever it is that freshly minted small town sheriffs do when they’ve just moved.”

John laughs and turns away, leaving Stiles to whatever it is exactly that he’s going to do to make their internet as secure as possible. The sound of rapid typing follows him down the hall to the office to catalogue the weapons that had been placed in the house for them; he’ll get his personal stash out of the car before the night is over and add to what’s already here.

Stiles alternates between shoving commands at his laptop and unpacking his laptop bag and the couple small boxes of clothes and books and ridiculous nicknacks that lay scattered around the room. It’s not until the doorbell rings almost an hour and a half later that he actually leaves his room, the promise of homemade food from their next door neighbor a stronger pull than checking out Beacon Hills through social media sites.


End file.
